


Moonquake

by TheoreticalOnly



Series: The Incompleteness Theorem [3]
Category: Heaven Will Be Mine (Visual Novel)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Correspondences and Logs, Epistolary, F/F, Luna-T Has Never Betrayed Anyone In Her Life, Post-Break Up, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-21 00:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15545262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheoreticalOnly/pseuds/TheoreticalOnly
Summary: Following a disastrous break-up with Halimede, Luna-Terra finds herself under pressure and evaluation from the Memorial Foundation brass. A mounting inquest into her personal life — co-signed by Halimede and overseen by Europa — in order to assess her fitness for duty leaves her emotionally gutted, prompting her to question the depths of her loyalty to her faction.





	Moonquake

**Author's Note:**

> The equation at the beginning of this fic is one used by Gödel to explain his Incompleteness Theorems. Below it is, in my own writing, an interpretation of the first of his two theorems. If you're into that kind of stuff, check out Raatikainen's work on Gödel. Also, I am not a mathematician, so. Yeah. Disclaimer.
> 
> This piece is the first installment of a series. The majority of the fics are pre-canon, with one or two exceptions. If you like this installment, please comment and bug me to keep writing. <3 Shoutout to everyone in the HWBM server. You’re all stars!
> 
> PS Catch me on Tumblr at mare-crisium.tumblr.com.

**SUBJECT: A Rebuttal to the Proposed Theory of Everything**

**Origin:** Memorial Foundation International Space Program [CLASSIFIED] %%%Extract

 **Author:** Memorial Foundation Division of Existential Safety [REDACTED] et al.

~(3r:3s: (P(r,s) V (s=g(sub (f₂(y))))))) or,

"This statement cannot be proved."

Within the self-evident and self-referential framework of the system _N,_ wherein rudimentary logic and elementary arithmetic can be applied, the logic and the arithmetic will be exhausted through a finite number of recursions but not to completion. From this we can extrapolate that within the system _N_ are statements which may be posited but not conclusively derived, as well as the inverse; that is, the consistent reality within the system _N_ is governed by the paradox of that which cannot be disproved.

Respectfully, I believe this demonstrates that, if we are to presume system _N_ is representative of our own material-immaterial universe, your theory is rendered horse shit.

* * *

Luna-Terra collects a pressed uniform and dons it in silence. It doesn't fit as well as hers. Isn't broken in. Hasn't seen war. The left breast is bare, medals stripped by Halimede along with her rank. Europa watches without verbal commentary, though her expression of appraisal leaves little of her thoughts to the imagination. The commander's ability to look at someone with equal parts predation and disinterest has always baffled Luna-Terra; evidently it's a hereditary quality, because Halimede and Triton both emanate the same cold sharpness when turning their gazes upon her. Beneath the shrapnel of their scrutiny, Luna-Terra feels impossibly small.

She can only assume that's always been their collective intention.

"You're quite exceptional, you know," Europa says without preface. She clasps her hands at the small of her back and takes several deliberate strides about Luna-Terra's perimeter. "As a specimen, I mean. Despite extended time in low gravity, your charts indicate excellent retention of bone density and muscle mass, with the added bonus of your pretty little face. I can see why my niece took a liking to you. The lab-grown ones have never done it for her."

"What an honor to have been the object of her admiration." Luna-Terra steps into her regulation trousers and tugs them up, shimmying gracelessly in an effort to ease the taut fabric over her ass. "But I guess I wasn't a good enough lay to stay in her good graces."

Europa arches a critical brow at her once-student’s unceremonious Pants Dance before glancing at the chronometer on her wrist. "In all fairness, I don't think you could have stayed in her good graces if you tried. You did not, however, try."

Luna-Terra snorts as she pulls her hair back into a poorly-wrought bun. "There's no trying with Halimede and you damn well know it." She moves to the sink and wets her hands to smooth the diaphanous cloud of blonde flyaways haloing her scalp. "As you said, my effort would have been misplaced."

"Oh?" Europa laughs, the chime of her voice incongruous with her customary austerity. "What a charming thought. _You._ Making an effort."

Rather than dignify the condescension, Luna-Terra straightens and nods toward the door. “We’re going to be late for my sham tribunal.”

Europa _tsks_ derisively. “Oh, please, don’t be so dramatic. This is just how Halimede deals with her emotions.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The last remaining NSES station is a retro-brutalist behemoth, commissioned and constructed in a harried pre-war haste. In its last days, the structure feels more skeletal and frail than Luna-Terra remembers, stripped of what few frills it had in preparation for its imminent decommissioning. It’s skeletal in other ways too, uncomfortably inanimate and averse to the formation of any ship-pilot intimacy. It doesn’t breathe like a ship-self, doesn’t vibrate with the surrogate pulse of a central tidal reactor. Her gravity means little here without the Mare Crisium to amplify it, and rather than feeling protected, she just feels diminished. The pentagonal halls, red-lit and immaculate, are the product of Earth’s hegemonic imagination, shaped in-atmosphere to ensure an experiential transfer of Earth Culture to the stars. It’s a menacing architecture. The threat of 9.8 m/s2. The threat of Earth’s values imposed upon its forgotten Alien children.

It was different, during the war. Luna-Terra hadn’t been spacebound for long when she entered existential combat, a child soldier not-quite-fighting in a war that now seems more reverie than memory. And in those dreamlike recollections, these halls didn’t feel so foreign, so imposing; the faces that passed her by were still open and friendly and bewildered at their circumstance, like those of lost children come to Neverland.

Of course, they all had to grow up sometime. One by one, their ship-selves were decommissioned, and one by one, they all forgot how to fly. All but Luna-Terra. All but the soon-to-be disgraced NSES ace.

Luna-Terra stops at the mouth of the lion’s den. She’s never been inside the Memorial Foundation Decommissioning Boardroom, much less for disciplinary reasons (though she’ll readily admit it would have been deserved if she had). Europa claps her shoulder, a familiar military gesture of camaraderie and encouragement. “Just relax. With all the hearts you’ve broken here at base, I’d be surprised if this was the worst thing you’d gone through in a break-up.”

“Hah. I might be a regular scoundrel, but at least no ex of mine has given me more grief than I deserve.”

Europa makes an incredulous noise before slipping into the Boardroom.

 

“You’re benching me?” Luna-Terra repeats, forcing a smile. “You’re benching your best fucking pilot as punishment for _breaking up with you?_ I’m sorry, I thought we had more important matters to address than petty couple’s revenge.”

“Would you like to cite those important matters to which you refer?” Triton asks, steepling her fingers.

Luna-Terra snorts and swings her head in Triton’s direction, her body primed for confrontation. “You have _two_ rising insurrections among your ranks. I know none of you want to acknowledge it, what with all the work of decommissioning the Space Program, but it is _happening._ What, is it — is it easier to cope with your existential anxieties by preemptively sabotaging your own forces? No use worrying about the coming war if you don’t have the pilots to fight it, right?”

Iapetus clears his throat. “You presume much, Luna-Terra, to think you know more about the burgeoning political rifts in our forces than we.”

“I’m the boots on the ground and the eye in the sky. I will _always_ know more about the tensions in your ranks than you,” the Mare Crisium pilot scoffs. “When was the last time any of you sat in the mess and talked politics with the crews? How many of their names do you even know?”

The room falls uncomfortably silent for a moment, and Luna-Terra straightens in her uniform, emboldened by the attention she commands. “I would implore the Board not to persecute petty rule-breakers for violating a conduct code which has _never_ in our organization’s history been enforced. It’s clear as starlight that the purpose of this investigation into me is to settle a personal vendetta. I don’t say this to save my skin. I say this because those resources should be dedicated to maintaining the integrity of the Space Program before it’s too late.”

Europa smiles subtly, approvingly. “The miscreant is right.” She turns to the rest of the board. “While the accusations against Luna-Terra aren’t without merit, and she’s been a pain in my ass since the day she enlisted, everything she’s said is true. Dissent among our own is growing. That’s where we should be conducting our investigations.”

Halimede raises her chin and sniffs. The straight gold curtain of her coiffed bob sways slightly within the constraints of whatever imported Earth mousse she’s massaged into it (and Luna-Terra regretfully, fondly, recalls many nights where she brushed that hair in soft flaxen handfuls, worked the scents of orange blossom and argan into it, fell asleep with her nose in the perfume of Halimede’s perfect Earthly beauty).

“The veracity of Luna-Terra’s claims requires more than the corroboration of a single officer who’s infamously fond of her,” Halimede snaps. Luna-Terra detects a tamped shrillness to her voice, a marker of the strain she exerts in holding her temper. On a better day, where the Princess wasn’t looking down at her from the dais, it would be a satisfying treble. “Independently of whether or not NSES is indeed on the verge of political havoc, our vote and decision are final. Luna-Terra, until the most thorough possible inquest into your conduct and affairs has been overseen to Commander Europa’s and _my_ satisfaction, you will remain without rank and without flight clearance. Investigators commissioned by the board will begin by interviewing your friends, associates, and flight crew in order to best assess the public opinion of your fitness for duty. In the meantime, you will also be subject to curfew effective between 2100 and 0700 as a means of insuring that our _strict_ non-fraternization policy is adhered to during the course of the investigation.”

Iapetus nods and anxiously shuffles a ream of papers. “Does the accused have any further questions?”

“Just one. Hali, as my partner in this egregious crime, will you be under curfew as well?” Luna-Terra beams brightly up at Halimede. “Hah, wait, what a ridiculous question, of course you're exempt. Remind me to tell the girls the high cost of letting you _fuck_ them.”

The Boards' eyes turn on Halimede.

“You are hereby _dismissed,_ Luna-Terra,” Europa says softly. Her quiet words mask an icy sense of warning. “You may return to your bunk and wait there until such a time that you are again required.”

Luna-Terra bites her lip and glowers at the dais. “Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

**SUBJECT: RE: A Rebuttal to the Proposed Theory of Everything**

**Origin:** Memorial Foundation International Space Program [CLASSIFIED] %%%Extract

 **Author:** Memorial Foundation Division of Celestial Mechanics [REDACTED]

My dearest [REDACTED],

If I am indeed to fall prey to any fallacy which negates my life's work, you'll have to try much harder than this. In proposing your pithy little Theory of Incompleteness, you neglect to notice the irony of an argument which posits a lack of conclusiveness to _anything_ being used as a _conclusive rebuttal._

Come by my study tomorrow. We'll do the proofs together talk more about my horse shit.

With love,

[REDACTED]

* * *

Luna-Terra paces restlessly in her bunk. Somewhere in the distance, in the NSES ship-self hangar, the Mare Crisium beckons her in heartbeats. Its tidal reactor calls and pulls, tantalizes her most selfish impulses with the prospects of weightlessness and the freedom of flight in vacuum. The rapid drumming of her own heart feels shallow in her ship-self’s absence; stripped of rank, stripped of honors, and now stripped of armor, she’s never felt more truly naked. Even all those mornings and nights undressed before Halimede, spread bare in the other woman’s bed, rocking her hips against the rough press of her fingers inside her, Luna-Terra hadn’t been so vulnerable (or penetrable, or weak, but the loss of her ship-self is tantamount to a loss of _self_ and it’s as sharp a blow as a light-harpoon to the chassis).

The feeling puts a hole straight through her.

When the anticipated knock at her door comes, Luna-Terra wipes the moisture that’s been glazing her eyes before opening. Rather than a consternated Europa, however, she finds herself vis-a-vis with a furious Mars.

“I can’t fucking believe that fucking fascist,” Mars snarls by way of greeting. She barges her way into the room and plants herself on the edge of Luna-Terra’s bed, gesticulating wildly with her hands. “Who looked at her capacity for judgement and made her Princess when Pluto is literally _right there?”_

“Halimede wasn’t chosen to govern in times of peace. I’ll admit, she’s a good judge of risk and tact in battle,” Luna-Terra replies, slumping down beside Mars, “but a shit one in most other scenarios.”

Mars huffs and offers a half-smile. “She’s a good judge of the ladies.”

 _“Hah.”_ Luna-Terra bumps their foreheads together. “Nah. Good taste is different from discernment. Not that liking me signals much in the way of good taste.”

The pair are silent for a moment before Mars reaches for the frizzled coil of Luna-Terra’s bun; Luna-Terra melts beneath the quasi-reverence of her touch as her hair falls loose and Mars’ hands move to the buttons of her uniform. Luna-Terra is tired, and grateful, if a little perplexed by the understated affection of the gesture.

“You don’t have to put yourself down just because everyone else does, you know,” Mars murmurs. She slides Luna-Terra’s jacket off the hard line of her shoulders. “You don’t have to treat yourself the way they treat you.”

“Who’s ‘they,’ Mars?”

The girl goes silent. Gradually, tenderly, her palm cups Luna-Terra’s scarred cheek. “With all that you see, Luna-T, I’m always so amazed by that which you don’t.”

Luna-Terra furrows her brows. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means that in spite of everything the Foundation has done to you, you’re still more trusting with them than they deserve.” Mars withdraws her touch from Luna-Terra’s cheek. “The longer you give them the benefit of the doubt, the more they can hurt you, Luna-T. Halimede will see to it.”

“I don’t want to talk about Hali.” Luna-Terra shifts away from Mars and forces down the lump in her throat. “Why… why are you here? You’ll get in trouble with the Board if you’re spotted entering or leaving my bunk.”

“I’m in trouble as it is, Luna-T.” Mars’ brown eyes are wide and unblinking. It’s a hopeful look, and an aching one, the sort of expression a younger Luna-Terra had once looked up at the stars with. “Don’t you know you’re worth it?”

The Mare Crisium hums in the distance, and Luna-Terra feels herself flush with warmth. “You’ve been spending too much time with Pluto if you’re going to flatter me like that.”

Mars inches closer to Luna-Terra, leaving the modest distance of an inch between their knees. “I don’t think you understand what it is Pluto and I do in our private time.”

“Oh? I think I can imagine.” There’s no edge to Luna-Terra’s tone, just an unaffected frankness. “It’s okay, Mars. Halimede didn’t like sharing. I knew when I let you go that you’d move on to someone else.”

Mars makes a face. “You can be a right _ass,_ Luna-T,” she admonishes crossly. “It wasn’t easy for me to watch her chew you up, and it isn’t any easier for me now to watch her spit you out. And it’s been even harder on Pluto. Harder than I think you can fathom. So give us both some credit.”

Luna-Terra sighs and leans her head back on Mars’ bunched shoulders. “You’re right,” the girl murmurs. She presses a featherlight kiss of apology into the hollow of Mars’ neck. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Mars. I’m so sorry.”

“No you’re _not,”_ Mars grumbles. She shivers agreeably when Luna-Terra’s arms snake about her waist. “You’re never sorry. You never think you’re wrong, even when you are.”

“It’s a flaw I’m trying to work on.” Luna-Terra cracks a smile. “C’mon, Mars. I really am sorry.”

 _“Ass,”_ Mars mutters. She averts her gaze and fights a reciprocal smile. “You piss me off.”

“I turn you on.”

Mars tilts their foreheads together and takes Luna-Terra by the hips. “That’s precisely what pisses me off, Luna-T.”

The girls laugh into their kiss, and the laughter quickly metamorphoses into sharp, rapid breaths, into quaking sighs and entreating whimpers, the wordless language of a yearning long unfulfilled. Luna-Terra shudders visibly when Mars scrapes her teeth against her lower lip, and it’s a sensation she would happily drown in, but a soldier never quite loses her learned hypervigilance, and amid the heady rush of pleasure she senses the first tendrils of a fast-approaching third center of gravity.

“Mars,” Luna-Terra breathes between kisses, “Mars — _oh_ — I need you to do something for me.”

Mars pulls back and grins dizzily. “What is it, Luna-T?”

“Get under my bed. Now.”

“Wait — _what?”_

 _“Right fucking now,_ space cadet.”

Mars is stowed out of sight beneath the bunk and Luna-Terra is buttoning her uniform jacket back up when they hear three brief raps at the door. “I’m coming in, kid,” Europa announces. The door slides open and she steps inside. “That was quite a mess you left me to clean up, Luna-Terra.”

The Commander pauses and gives Luna-Terra’s disheveled appearance an ostensible once-over. “What’s wrong with you? Were you accosted by the legion of girls who were waiting for you to dump Halimede?”

“No,” Luna-Terra replies, “but it’s quite a nice stroke to my ego to know there is one.”

“Jesus Christ, you shameless disaster. Don't you have a clue how bad things are getting for you? How thin the line you're walking on is?” Europa pulls up a chair shakes her head. “I thought that hearing would let Halimede find some kind of closure and get over herself, but I think it’s only made her angrier. After you left, she was furious that I’d allowed you to speak so brazenly about and _to_ her. Thanks for that, by the way. It’s hard to justify to my own niece why I’m taking your side in this ridiculous drama of yours. But you’ve never made things easier for me, have you?”

Luna-Terra shrugs. “You’ve never indicated anything of the kind.” She smooths her hair pensively. “What does Halimede have to say about the disintegration of the ranks?”

“Oh, the usual denial, which Dr. Nix and Iaepetus have of course been feeding her,” Europa says in hushed tone. She leans forward conspiratorially. “I suspect Dr. Nix is involved in the propagation of separatist ideas, but I don’t have the evidence or the backing from other Board members to prove it. Right now, it’s my word against theirs, and right now they aren't keen to accept the opinion of a person whose fitness for duty is being evaluated.”

The Mare-Crisium lets out a distressed wavelength that Luna-Terra feels in the marrow of her bones. "Will they ground me for good?"

"Against her better judgement, Halimede will want to see to it," the Commander laments, "but you still have an advocate on the Board."

"Thank you," Luna-Terra whispers. She feels a sting in her eyes as barely-restrained tears collect and cling in her lashes. "I mean it."

"Don't thank me yet. My assistance is not unconditional." Europa's countenance hardens and her posture goes rigid to the point of brittleness. "There's something I need you to do for me."

Luna-Terra waits expectantly for a request, but Europa has fallen eerily silent. "Um, Europa? Are you alright?"

Europa places a finger to her lips. "Be careful who you trust, Luna-Terra. And remember where your loyalties lie. We'll speak more tomorrow." She rises to her feet and moves toward the door. "I hope you're prepared for the consequences if you betray us."

At those words, Luna-Terra recoils, affronted. "Commander, I've never betrayed anyone in my life."

"That only means it's never been convenient for you," Europa says drily, "and because there's never been any pleasure in it."

She takes her leave. Luna-Terra doesn't move or speak for what feels like an age.

"Can I come out now?" Mars finally groans.

* * *

**SUBJECT: RE: RE: A Rebuttal to the Proposed Theory of Everything**

**Origin:** Memorial Foundation International Space Program [CLASSIFIED] %%%Extract

 **Author:** Memorial Foundation Division of Existential Safety [REDACTED] et al.

You ARROGANT MOTHERF@%&ER. You think that because you spent your life on something — dedicated your life to something — that its claims can be upheld against contrary evidence? That the Gravity of your expertise is an indisputable force? Men. I swear to god.

The machine of the human mind is consistent and vast, but its powers are finite. The Incompleteness Theorem is not merely a jab at your career, [REDACTED]. It is a mathematical treatise on the finiteness of human capacity for knowing and interpreting the universe, and by extension, the existential threat. Perhaps in the hands of god your Theory of Everything could be realized. But we are not gods. We are not even human. We are Alien. Who are we, then, existentially, to presume a single, all-encompassing, self-evident truth of the universe? We do not have the Culture. And I won't let you have the ego.

"If we assume _F_ is a consistent formalized system which contains elementary arithmetic, then F ⊬ Cons (F)." Categorically disprove this and I'll stop haranguing you.

* * *

"I should probably go," Mars sighs, wringing her wrists. "We were being pretty stupid.  _I_ was being pretty stupid."

"It's not your fault if you lose your good sense when I'm around," Luna-Terra teases. She traces a fingertip down the gentle slope of Mars' side. "But you're right. I think it's best you go. You never know when the Board is going to seek you out for their interview."

She peers out the spyhole in her door. "The hall looks clear."

"Luna-T." Mars looks more serious in this moment than Luna-Terra has ever seen her. "Despite what Europa may want you to think, our loyalties lie with what we believe, not those we serve. Especially when those we serve rarely return the favor. Remember that."

The girl presses a cigarette-sized roll of paper into her palm, followed by a final (bruising) kiss to her mouth. "I'll be seeing you, Luna-T."

"Be seeing you," Luna-Terra echoes.

After Mars goes, and the pull of her gravity is severed by physical distance, Luna-Terra returns to her bunk, falling in with a deep and drawn-out sigh. She clutches the tiny spool of paper in her hand for a moment longer, clinging to some childish hope for excitement in its contents. When she unrolls it, she finds a phrase written by hand in orange ink:

_Thankful for our Cradle's Graces, but we're not coming back._


End file.
